


Re-enactment Types

by MHeloyse



Category: The Marlows - Antonia Forest
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-17 23:07:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4684688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MHeloyse/pseuds/MHeloyse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nicola borrows Lawrie’s new camera ... with frightening results!   Set in the summer between <i>The Cricket Term</i> and <i>The Attic Term</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Re-enactment Types

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [Antonia_Forest_Fanworks_2015](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Antonia_Forest_Fanworks_2015) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
>  
> 
> Nicola menaced by ghosts - real or imaginary.

An instant camera, Nicola thought, had been a super idea of Lawrie’s for a birthday present, it was just a shame she’d wanted it for such a dreggy reason. Taking pictures of oneself daubed in stage make-up was not Nicola’s idea of fun; Lawrie’s explanation that it was _essential_ for continuity purposes in films was so clearly stark raving bonkers, since any film debut Lawrie might make was still light years away, that her twin could only conclude she wanted a lasting memorial to her own cleverness. At least, judging by the various snaps of Lawrie’s face in crone-like guises which now adorned their bedroom walls, she could hardly be accused of _vanity_ ...

Still, an instant camera was a useful thing to have, even though the loan of it for an afternoon had cost her considerably. There were seven snaps left on the film cartridge; Lawrie, scenting a bargain, had insisted on its replacement with a brand new cartridge _whether she used the seven snaps or not._ Nicola had agreed, reluctantly; the chance to take pictures at Colbrook Castle was too good an opportunity to miss, and since she didn’t fancy grappling with the intricacies of Peter’s camera, even assuming he’d lend it, it was Lawrie’s Instamatic or nothing.

***

It had been Rowan who started it; her announcement at breakfast that she was driving over to a nearby farm that afternoon, to look at some equipment that was for sale, and would be passing Colbrook Castle if anyone cared for a lift in that direction, met with mixed reactions. Peter’s instant mumbled comment about being busy with his carpentry all day was hardly surprising; offhand, Nicola couldn’t think of anywhere her brother would be _less_ likely to want to go, not after all Patrick had said about the place last winter. Lawrie had greeted the suggestion with a withering glance; ancient ruins held no interest for her whatsoever. Ann had said apologetically what a good idea it was, and she’d have _loved_ to go, but she’d promised to help at the church bring-and-buy sale, and she couldn’t possibly let them down at the last minute. Ginty, staring deep into her tea-cup, hadn’t replied at all; she probably hadn’t even heard.

So, as it happened, Nicola was the only passenger in Rowan’s ancient Landrover as it bumped down the lanes. She’d thought of asking Chas – he’d been surprisingly enthusiastic after his birthday visit – but, on enquiry, it had turned out that the Infant Dodds were bound for haircuts in Streweminster that afternoon. That left precisely her. Not that she minded doing things by herself; she’d been wanting to visit Colbrook Castle ever since Gondal days, it was just that – well – it would have been super to go with Patrick, that’s all, and to talk to him about his ancestors. It would’ve been the perfect chance to ask him about Tyburn Anthony. But Patrick now meant Patrick-and-Ginty, and _that_ was something to be avoided at all costs. It was bad enough running into them in the stables went she went to fetch Buster, and hearing them at their Gondal nonsense – how they still _could_ , eight months later – without actually _courting_ their company – not, she reminded herself hastily, that Patrick would want hers anymore.

“All right if I drop you here?” Rowan said, halting at the approach to a small car park. Nicola looked up from adjusting the strap of the camera; there were the ruins, less of them than she’d imagined, and in front , a low-roofed modern building, the lobster tea-rooms (three-and-nine). She sighed; the day, which had started out with promising breezy sunshine, was now turning overcast; the ruins took on a rather sinister look, if Rowan suddenly decided she needed Nicola’s help with her farm purchases, she thought, she wouldn’t actually be _disappointed ..._

“Pick you up in about an hour? Or d’you need longer?”

“Nope,” Nicola swung her legs out of the car, suddenly determined. It would be silly to waste the trip, and the loan of the camera, after all. “An hour will do me fine. Thanks, Ro ...”

Rowan grinned, turned the car round and drove off. Nicola pulled her windcheater tight, feeling glad she’d put it on, hoisted the camera on its strap around her neck, and set off along the gravelled path towards the castle.

A rough wooden bridge crossed what had once been the moat, but had been smoothed by the years to a gently sloping grassy dip. As Nicola approached the bridge, ominous dark spots began to appear on the time-worn planks; it was raining. A party consisting of mum in too-tight, bulging sun-dress, dad in jeans and t-shirt and three children in shorts had evidently taken this as the signal to conclude their visit, hurrying past her with talk of ice-creams and cups of tea. Nicola, doing her best to ignore the rain, decided to be more hardy. Lobster teas, in any case, were not her scene, even if she’d been in possession of the necessary three-and-nine.

What had once been the gatehouse now had only a few spikes protruding from the stones as a remnant of former fortifications, but for all its shortcomings, it provided temporary respite from the now-steady rain. Peering into the courtyard, it looked as though the weather had finished off all that day’s trippers, unless they were sheltering somewhere beyond the tumbledown openings in the surrounding walls. No one else was in sight. Well, Nicola decided, all the better for taking photographs, if other people were so drippy that they had to hoof off to the tea-rooms at the first hint of rain.

The left side of the castle, Nicola decided, had coped better with the years than the right. Most of the walls were intact, and it looked as though it _might_ be possible to climb up the stairway nearest to her, and come out into the little turret on top. But she’d save that for the moment; the rain might get worse; best to explore the exposed parts while the going was relatively good ... 

As she picked her way over mixed flags and grass, looking at a window here and a razed wall there, Nicola found herself, almost against her will, reliving last winter’s Gondal. What Patrick had said about Malise; Peter’s white face and the ghastly moment with the pistol. How _could_ Patrick and Ginty bear to carry it on, after all that? But, what had been the end of _her_ friendship with Patrick had only been the start of his with Ginty ...

The rain seemed suddenly harder, all at once she realised she was cold, damp and miserable. It had, she concluded, been stupid to come here, there wasn’t really anything worth photographing and a ruined castle was just a matter of old stones and bits of windows, after all. Perhaps she should scrape together the money for a hot chocolate, wait for Rowan in the tea-room, and hope against hope that Lawrie might be magnanimous about the unused snaps and let her off buying a new film. She looked around in indecision, trying to summon enthusiasm to do _something,_ then she heard a voice. 

“It will not be long now, heart’s dearest. Soon these dreadful times will pass, and _he_ need trouble you no more. You must only keep him sweet a little longer, for the sake of our cause.”

_Patrick_ – but no, it couldn’t possibly be, though it _sounded_ like Patrick in one of his Gondal incarnations. A woman was answering, now, too quietly for her to hear, but she caught one word: _Malise._ Nicola went cold. _Surely_ Patrick and Ginty hadn’t followed her here - to _Gondal;_ how perfectly _ghastly_ if so! She looked round, but could see no one. It had sounded exactly like Patrick, though, and who else would start talking about Malise? P’raps Ginty genuinely hadn’t been listening to Rowan at breakfast, and it was all a coincidence ... if so, she’d better nip out smartish before they saw her, otherwise Ginty’d be sure to think it was the other way round, that _she’d_ followed _them,_ and _that_ didn’t bear thinking about. But if they were anywhere in the courtyard, she might run smack into them on her way to the gatehouse ... 

An idea struck her – if she climbed that turret thing, she’d be able to look out over the front of the castle; then she’d see if Catkin and Blackleg were outside and know for sure if it was really Patrick and Ginty she’d heard ...

Except it was easier said than done. The turret stairs proved worn and slippery, spiralling up into near darkness. As she groped against the rough stone walls, Nicola felt the old fears rising within her, what if there were _ghosts ..._

This, she thought more sensibly, when stairs finally twisted so the light from the sky could filter down, was _not_ what I had in mind when I signed up. She came out at last into fresh, damp air, got her bearings, found the right parapet and gazed down on the landscape below. 

No ponies grazed. Nothing to see but the tea room and car park, its few cars providing a reassuringly humdrum vista after her recent dire imaginings. That was that, then. Either Patrick and Ginty had got up and gone, or, what was far more likely, they’d never been there in the first place. She’d just been thinking about their Gondal nonsense and thought she’d heard them; most like it had been some other trippers who she hadn’t noticed, talking about something perfectly ordinary, and her imagination had done the rest. Now, she’d got that ghastly staircase to go back down, and all for nothing. She’d take it a sight more quickly this time, too ...

Out of the light, then the horrible dark twisting part, then ...

“Marlow!”

A voice cried out, sending her heart hammering up into her throat. She stood stock still, trying to breathe. For Pete’s sake, what was _that?_ She listened, but heard nothing more than the distant cry of a bird. _And that’s all you heard then, too,_ she told herself, firmly. It was a _bird;_ prob. it was just the twisting of the stairs had distorted the echo. She made herself move, and then hurry, put a spurt on, get out of this dark bit ... heck, though, these stairs were slippery.

“Ow!” This time it was Nicola’s yelp disturbing the echoes as she went down on her back, bumping her way down the few remaining steps, to land in the courtyard, hitting her head so hard on the doorway that for a moment, she saw stars.

Her first thought on sitting, slowly, painfully, upright was for Lawrie’s camera. If she’d damaged it, she thought, gloomily, she would _never_ hear the last of it. Ever. The next million years without pocket money stretched cheerlessly before her; but the camera, upon cautious examination, seemed mercifully intact.

A shadow fell over her. Someone was coming; best get up, quick, the last thing she wanted was _sympathy._

“You betrayed me!” A man’s voice, harsh and hurt. Not the voice that sounded like Patrick’s but a different one. “I defied my family; I gave up my cause to come here, all for _you_ and then, you go to _him._ ”

“No!” The woman’s voice again, pleading, tearful. “No, Malise, my love, I promise you ...”

Nicola gaped; what _was_ this? Why couldn’t she _see_ any of these people? She backed against the wall, meaning to edge her way round to the gatehouse, but the Patrick voice came back, in commanding tones, as loudly as if it were speaking directly into her ear.

“Enough, Marlow. We’ve no time for this. Charlotte, leave him be.”

Nicola was paralysed; if only she could _see_ them, she thought wildly, she’d _know_ it was all right – re-enactment types, p’raps, rehearsing for some history performance ...

“You’ll regret this, Merrick,” the first voice growled. “I promise, you’ll regret it.”

“Come, my love,” the Patrick voice said. “Take no notice of Malise Marlow. He will get over it.” More shadows moved, nearer and nearer; then, a cold rush of air, then, thankfully, at last, silence. 

Nicola drew a deep breath and leaned against the wall. Her knees felt weak. It was the blow to her head, of course. She was hearing things, nothing more; but nonetheless it was clearly, now, time to leave; _never_ had the thought of a lobster tea-room seemed more inviting. There was the gatehouse ahead; only a few more steps and she’d be ...

A figure appeared before her, clad in black, with drawn sword and blazing eyes.

“He thinks I mean to fight him! I shall have better vengeance than that, better, do you hear? Malise Marlow will not be taken for a fool!”

He thrust his sword towards her; instinctively Nicola tried to block it with Lawrie’s camera; she had a fleeting sensation of icy coldness, the sword, the man, on top of her and then ... nothing. Malise was gone, and there was only the gatehouse before her, the rain on her face and, in the distance, the sound of some children, shouting. She let the camera fall around her neck and walked, shakily, out, towards Lobster Teas, three-and-nine, and the lovely, normal car park.

***

“Whatever have you been up to, Nick?” Rowan looked at her sister as she drew up beside her in the Landrover. “You’ve a whacking great bruise on the side of your head.”

“Altercation with a doorway,” Nicola said ruefully, relishing the warm, dry, familiar car smell as she got in; then, as her sister continued to gaze in concern, “I’m all _right,_ honestly, Rowan. No need to do an Ann.”

“Fair enough,” Rowan said equably, letting in the clutch. “You know best. I should get cleaned up before Mum sees you, though.”

Rowan’s presence, reliably, sent Nicola’s fears back to their proper places. Against the soothing rhythm of the windscreen wipers swishing back and forth, her thoughts drifted ... she’d been thinking about the Gondal, and then when she hit her head, she’d imagined those voices belonging to Malise and Anthony Merrick, and Charlotte, whoever _she_ was. Nothing more than that, there was no reason to be scared. It’d be funny, though, if it _were_ true ... if the scenes her imagination had re-enacted had really happened. It had sounded like Malise wasn’t the only one who’d indulged in some treachery ... _that_ would please Peter, she thought, if not Patrick ...

***

Lawrie, it seemed, had spent the afternoon making herself up as a woebegone Victorian orphan; there wasn’t, Nicola thought, as she dropped wearily onto her bed, much to choose between them in the appearance of pallor, bruising and general ill-being. Predictably, upon hearing about her twin’s accident, Lawrie’s concern was entirely for her camera.

“Did you drop it when you fell? It’ll be _ruined,_ and _you_ can’t afford to replace it, and Mum _won’t,_ she’ll just say it was my fault for lending it to you!”

“ _Not_ to flap! It’s _fine!_ And I didn’t even use any of your precious snaps.”

“Yes, you did. It says ‘6’ in the window-thing ... there were _seven_ ... if you _didn’t_ use one, then it’s saying _wrong_ , it _must_ be broken.”

“Give it here ...” Nicola sat up. “I’ll take one now, of you in your orphan get-up, then we’ll know it’s all right.”

“But that’s a _waste._ I’ve _got_ one of myself as an orphan!”

“So you’ll have another one. I’m buying you a whole new film, aren’t I?” 

The shutter clicked as Lawrie made a pathetic orphan face, which immediately changed to a fierce expression as she grabbed the camera from her twin and waited with impatience. The camera hummed, whirred, and then out slid, not one, but two snaps.

“There, you see, you _did_ take one,” Lawrie said, triumphantly. “It must’ve got wedged in, that’s all. Looks a bit blurry, though ...” She handed it to her twin, quite prepared to be gracious now that she knew her camera was working , _and_ she’d got five free snaps into the bargain.

Nicola watched as the colours on the snap darkened ... an impression of a silver sword, a shadowy figure behind it ... or just a shaft of light and the shapes of stones melding into one another where the camera had shaken. It was impossible to tell.

“Gruesome,” Lawrie pronounced, mildly impressed. “Like a horror film ... I say, _are_ they filming something at Colbrook Castle? Did you see any acting types?”

“No,” Nicola yawned, and dropped the photograph onto the bed. She was tired; it would be rather nice just to do nothing, for once, until it was time for tea. “No acting types ... just ... re-enactment types.”


End file.
